


low-key, no pressure

by wandasmaximoffs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY U NERD, Interviews, Journalist!Enjolras, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Smitten Enjolras, he's so smitten yall, model!grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 20:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10975185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: Most people don’t ignore their boss' advice when it comes to ruthlessly tearing down the current administration. Most people don’t ignore their editors when they say something is a little too vicious. Most people don’t have their articles published regardless of higher ups advice.Most people aren’t Enjolras.Being taken off of politics and forced to interview some model as punishment can't be that bad, can it?(Or, the model!grantaire and journalist!enjolras au that nobody asked for.)





	low-key, no pressure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enjolrasenthusiast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/gifts).



He knows that he got himself into this mess.

Most people don’t ignore their boss' advice when it comes to ruthlessly tearing down the current administration. Most people don’t ignore their editors when they say something is a little too vicious. Most people don’t have their articles published regardless of higher ups advice.

Most people aren’t Enjolras.

 

So, yeah, he published an article that ruthlessly and methodically tore apart every single word the current president of the united states has said since he moved into the White House, with some choice language that made even Combeferre flinch when he read it.

But he knows in his heart that publishing the article regardless was the right thing to do. He’d be a poor excuse for a journalist if he censored what he knows to be true purely out of fear of being called fake news, and this knowledge makes the task of sitting in Valjean’s office awaiting his verdict infinitely less daunting.

 

Enjolras is expecting suspension, at the very least; Valjean is, above all things, a fair boss with a strong moral compass, and he doubts he would fire him for this. Even though going behind his back was _technically_ subordination.

Fire him? No. Chew him out for a half hour until he goes back to his desk with his metaphorical tail between his legs? Maybe.

Right now, he’s just sitting there with his head in his hands, elbows on the desk, silent. For most men this would seem like a gesture of exhaustion or disinterest; When Valjean does it, it’s kind of terrifying. Enjolras waits in silence, watching him warily from the smaller wooden chair in front of his desk.

 

(This is not the first time that Enjolras has been here under these circumstances, and it won’t be the last.)

“Enjolras.” He sighs, finally looking up. Enjolras shifts in his seat. “You know I agree with everything you said in that piece. And I also told you that to publish it was a risk we can’t afford to take-- I’m not done,” he adds hastily, seeing Enjolras open his mouth to protest.

 

“On reflection, it was cowardly of me to ask you to rewrite the article. I know that we as journalists have a responsibility to hold the current administration accountable, and I know I can count on you to keep us all honest.” He says, pulling something out of the drawer below his desk, “But that doesn’t change the fact that you went behind my back, Enjolras, and ignored advice from your colleagues. So I’m putting Combeferre on what you all have affectionately dubbed _Trump Watch_ this month, and you can take some of Cosette’s human interest load, okay? ”

“But _sir--_ ” Starts Enjolras. He’s pretty sure his eyes are twice as wide as they normally are-- He respects Valjean as a person, but who in their right mind would think that taking him off of political and social justice based issues and putting him on what really are just _fluff pieces_ would be a good idea, and in this political climate? He claims that he can count on him to keep them all honest and then _demotes_ him?

“But nothing. It’s just for this month, and then you’ll be back to tearing the administration apart, okay? It’s really out of my hands, Enjolras,” He adds, softer, “I can’t be seen letting you do what you want without consequences, even if what you’re doing is for the greater good. It’s this or something more formal, and I really don’t want to see you suspended. You’re a good man, and you’ve done wonders for this magazine. We’d be lost without your voice, and I’d rather lose it for a month than forever.”

 

This, at least, he can understand. Enjolras has never been one to play by the rules if the rules are _wrong,_ but he knows that sometimes it’s necessary to play along if he wants to keep doing good. And he _does_ want to keep doing good, so badly-- Someone needs to hold the shitshow they’re calling their government accountable, and he knows the ratings of the magazine have grown since they took him on in politics. And if writing a few pieces on chickens who have found homes with elderly citizens or youth choirs who have made it regionals is what it takes to keep making a difference, he’ll do it.

“I-- Okay,” He sighs, “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

“Wonderful!” Says Valjean, sliding some papers across the desk to him. “These are some of Cosette’s ideas for the next issue-- You know she’s very spontaneously in Italy for the month with, what’s his name, Pondman, so you can take some of her scheduled interviews too.”

 

 _Pondman._ Enjolras fights to hold back the laugh that’s threatening to bubble up, choosing instead to focus on reading the papers in front of him.

 

It’s all pretty good stuff, he has to admit-- Interviews with the head of a local wildlife preservation organisation, an up and coming recording artist, and a model whose name he vaguely recognises. Sure, it’s not _politics,_ but he thinks he can muster up the appropriate excitement for some of these things.

“Uh-- _Pontmercy_ , sir. And I’d be glad to, these actually look great. Thank you.”

* * *

The rest of the day is spent doing copious amounts of research on all the new pieces he’s suddenly writing. One of the interviews, the one with the model, is distressingly soon-- Enjolras considers himself a people person, but _not_ when he’s supposed to be interviewing them on half a day’s preparation.

Cosette’s notes are far from extensive, but he can’t blame her. If he suddenly had a boyfriend willing to whisk _him_ away to Italy, you’d find him taking cheesy tourist photographs in front of the leaning tower of Pisa, not huddled away in his office taking notes on some model.

 

Lucky for him, though, he doesn’t _hate_ research, so it really shouldn’t take long to extend them from a name and a date of birth to what is practically a biography.

(Courfeyrac can insist he’s a nerd all he likes, but being well-informed and armed with facts on a certain subject will never not be useful.)

So, he opens up Google and pulls up a search for Henri Grantaire.

* * *

Five hours and two takeout deliveries later, Enjolras has just about managed to transform Cosette’s sparse notes into a color-coded bible of all things Henri Grantaire. Which would probably be a lot creepier if he were in any other profession.

Honestly? He’s a little surprised at what he’s found out, and it makes the prospect of _interviewing_ the guy in the morning a little more attractive.

Modelling as a profession has always seemed vacuous and negative to Enjolras, people paid to be perfect in order to push the consumerist lifestyle on anyone who doesn’t want to fall outside the social parameters set by empty-eyed, thin-thighed supermodels. He understands the pursuit of aesthetic beauty, but when it reaches a point that it’s starting to damage people, his understanding runs out.

But this guy, who apparently goes by his surname only, or R to his friends-- Enjolras hates to sound cliche, but he seems so _different._ He can be aesthetically objective enough to recognise that this man, while pretty much stunning, does not look like he could be plastered on an Abercrombie and Fitch bag.

There’s just something about him. He seems to have modelled for every single brand in the world, but his face rings absolutely no bells, which makes Enjolras question his own connection to current events taking place outside the White House.

 

Of all the images that came up in the search, his favorite (not that he has a favorite, _shut up,_ that’d be weird) would have to be a shot of him in what looks to be a library, a book in his lap and smiling at the camera in a way that seems totally genuine.

It could be a candid, were it not for the clunky, over-focused watch on his wrist.

That brings things back into focus, as it were-- Grantaire is _paid_ to look like this, to sell some capitalist fantasy, and that’s the only thing Enjolras should take from these pictures. The man could be an absolute puppy-kicking monster in his day-to-day life, but that’s not going to show through in a Rolex ad, is it?

 

No. No, it’s not. Enjolras closes the browser, shakes his head, and gets ready to head home.

* * *

The sound of his alarm clock in the morning is a little more than _unwelcome,_ and it takes pretty much all of Enjolras’ inner strength not to rip the cord from the wall and launch the damned thing straight into his wardrobe.

 

Instead, he hits snooze, and tries to pretend that he doesn’t have to interview a weirdly hot model today. It works, for a little while, until the giant mass of purring, ginger fur that is Batcat decides to drop himself heavily on his chest and meow _pitifully_ until Enjolras gains enough control over his arms to pet him clumsily.

“Alright,” He groans, face still half-buried in the pillow, “Alright, breakfast is coming, you little menace.”

 

Satisfied, Batcat retreats to the kitchen, and Enjolras makes an effort to haul himself up.

* * *

A half hour and two cups of coffee later, he’s at least upright and coherent, and Batcat is chewing on the last of his dry food, casting dirty looks to where Enjolras is leaning heavily on the counter.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He says, “It’s good for your teeth. You’re above fancy feast, and we both know it.”

Batcat doesn’t even have the courtesy to meow in response, so Enjolras leaves him to finish his breakfast and goes back to the bedroom, to assess the contents of his wardrobe and find something appropriate for an interview with a model.

 

He’s not blind to his own good looks-- He knows, conventionally, in today’s society, he fits the mold of what an attractive man might be-- but he’s no model, _obviously._ He’s a journalist, and despite the mountain of texts from Courfeyrac, demanding he wear some jacket that he gave him years ago (It’s bright red, with gold buttons and a weird lattice pattern on the front) he’s going to _dress like one._

 _For God’s sake,_ he thinks, _they’re just clothes. You wear them every day. Don’t make it weird._

It ends up being weird.

 

He changes his outfit at least four times, and then tries three different jackets on, and changes his socks. Enjolras has never been one to focus on what he looks like, or even give it much thought; Physical beauty plays far too large a part in society for his taste, and he’s not going to be hypocritical about that. Except for today, maybe, because for some god-forsaken reason he actually _cares._

 _I just want to make a good first impression,_ he tells himself, _it’s important for the interview that we get off on the right foot. And it’s important for the magazine that the interview goes well. It’s important for my politics column that it goes well. That’s all._

Batcat has made his way back into the bedroom at some point during all of this, and fixes Enjolras with what seems to be an extremely judgemental stare, for a cat.

* * *

Feuilly called ahead and said that he’s having a car sent over to pick him up, since apparently things have gotten a little out of hand outside the studio. Enjolras doesn’t quite get what he means by _out of hand,_ but can only assume it’s some march or rally that he didn’t hear about.

He continues to make the day weird by choosing to skip breakfast, deciding to run solely on the two cups of coffee he’d drained earlier. It’s the most important meal of the day, he knows, and thusly tries not to miss it as often as possible, but the butterflies in his stomach just _won’t quit._

On the counter, the oatmeal he made _just in case_ remains unappealing and aggressively repellent to the butterflies occupying his stomach, and by the time the car arrives he decides to chalk it up to nerves and be done with it.

 

The ride is pretty uneventful; Enjolras exchanges small talk with the driver, comments on the weather, asks him how his morning is going, and then retreats to go over the questions he’s drafted up.

They’re just a guideline, really. It’s much easier on both parties if he just follows the flow of conversation and alters his questions to fit it best, and reaps and much less awkward or forced result than it would otherwise, but it’s always nice to have a back-up plan, just in case.

Even he has to admit, they’re nothing special. His English professor once said that a good writer can adapt to any situation, without compromising their integrity-- if that’s true, Enjolras is going to have to put himself on the Bad Writer’s List, because even he is disgusted at the vapidness of his own questions. They’re so meaningless that they don’t even bear repeating, and he’s well aware that he’s banking on Grantaire being a good conversationalist. Of course there are  _other_ things he'd like to ask him, but he doubts he'll get much of a response if he asks a  _model_ what he thinks about the harmful standards set by his own industry.

 

He doesn’t even realise that they’ve reached Feuilly’s studios until the dull chatter of a crowd and some camera flashes cause him to look up from his binder; The entire building is surrounded by actual crowds of people, some with signs that read ridiculous things like “GRANTAIRE PLEASE MARRY ME,” and “WE _R_ UR BIGGEST FANS.”

The crowds get louder as the car pulls up, curious fans leaning over each other and trying to get a glimpse of the newcomer. Crowds are nothing new to Enjolras, and he can deliver a pretty rousing speech to any unruly mob on the planet, but this is kind of intimidating. The noise somehow gets even _louder_ when Feuilly appears, giving the rabble a little wave and jogging up to the car just as Enjolras opens the door.

“Hi!” He yells, grinning at Enjolras’ lost expression. “Things are a little wild out here, huh?  Grantaire’s inside, just follow me!”

 

If he thought the cheering was loud from _inside_ the car, it’s nothing compared to being in the middle of it all. He knew Feuilly and Grantaire were somewhat close, considering he’d set the interview up with Cosette in the first place, but not to the point of his fans recognising him. The screams are deafening, fans of all genders packed as close as possible to the building, hoping for just a glimpse of the man they came for.

Enjolras wonders how charismatic a person Grantaire must be, to have so many fans willing to wait outside in the cold for him without ever actually _meeting_ him.

It’s a whole lot less overwhelming once they’re inside the building, the screams and cheers almost completely muffled, and he can finally greet Feuilly properly, like the professional journalist he is.

 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , that was insane! Does that happen every time he’s over here?”

Well. Professionalism has no place between friends, right?

“Most times, yeah.” He laughs, and claps Enjolras on the back. “I can’t complain, it’s free publicity. R’s upstairs already-- Don’t look so nervous. You’ll like him. He’s a good guy.”

“I’m not nervous.” Says Enjolras, tone verging on petty. Feuilly takes this to be the token protest it is, judging by the amused look on his face, and waves a hand vaguely.

“Sure. You know your way up, yeah? I have some gear to lug up while you two get acquainted.”

* * *

 

He knows his way around the studios well enough-- They held a few meetings in the roomier spaces upstairs when the Musain was closed for renovation, and he’s come to visit Feuilly countless other times, too-- But part of him still wants to deny that he knows the way and volunteer to be Feuilly’s gear-lugger for the day, to put off meeting Grantaire as long as he can.

 _Not nervous,_ he’d said. What a _joke._ It didn’t convince Feuilly, and now he can’t even convince himself.

Instead of voicing all this, or simply making a break for it and walking home, Enjolras nods, and starts up the stairs. There’s an elevator, but he figures the time it takes to climb up three flights of stairs will be enough to at least compose himself externally.

Why the hell is he nervous? It can’t be because of Grantaire’s status as a “celebrity,” since he’s never put much stock into the idolization of the rich and famous. Everyone is just a person, with the same intrinsic and priceless value that comes simply by living, in the end, and no amount of money can heighten or lower that value.

Could it be the fact that he’s aesthetically attractive? It’s not a thought that crosses Enjolras’ mind often-- He’s had enough disastrous tinder-fuelled dates, egged on by Courfeyrac, that he’s resolved to take a break from the whole dating scene for now. There are bigger fish to fry, anyway. Bigger fish that don’t end up with drinks being thrown, or choking on spaghetti, or being lectured all night by a _republican._

That doesn’t change the fact that Grantaire is, unarguably, very attractive. But he’s paid to be, isn’t he? That’s the basis of his entire career. He’s attractive. Enjolras is not in a place to take anyone at face value-- A modelling contract is not a guarantee of a good personality.

 

 _Not that any of that even matters,_ he thinks, approaching the double doors that he knows leads into Feuilly’s main studio. He’s taking a break from dating. Grantaire is a model, and they don’t even _know_ each other.

God, he’s _got_ to stop letting Courf rope him into rom-com movie nights.

The double doors loom ominously in front of him when he hops up the last of the steps, and he pauses in front of them. Just for a moment, he tells himself. Just to compose himself, properly.

 

 _There’s no need to be nervous,_ he thinks, _you’ve done this a thousand times._

 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and goes inside.

* * *

Grantaire gets to his feet as soon as Enjolras steps into the room, catching him off guard immediately. That, and the sinking realisation that yes, he’s as hot in person as he is on all those billboards and vogue articles, if not hotter.

“Um. Hi.” Says Grantaire, and Enjolras breathes and internal sigh of relief to see that Grantaire looks about as nervous as he feels. He’s taller than expected, at least a head over Enjolras, with wild curls that bounce around at the slightest movement. “I’m-- Henri. Grantaire. Henri Grantaire. But, um, you can call me R, if you want. Most of my friends do, it’s--”

“A pun?” Finishes Enjolras, shoved out of his daydream and back into the land of the living by the realisation. “Sorry,” He adds,  flushing when he realises that he interrupted him, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to be phased by it at all. He looks surprised, but not negatively so, his expression slowly breaking out into a smile.

“Yeah! I’m surprised you got it so quickly-- You speak French?”

“I do,” Enjolras can’t help but smile back; Grantaire’s grin is infectious. “My parents are both French, thus the name. Which is Enjolras, by the way, Antoine Enjolras, but most people just stick with-- Enjolras.” He trails off, well aware that he just stuttered his own name out three times in one breath, but again Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind.

 

“Enjolras,” He says, over-extending the first syllable for some unknown reason and dropping back into the window seat he was perched on before. He gestures for Enjolras to join him, before adding, “Fitting.”

He’s not quite sure what he means by that, and doesn’t really want to ask, instead carefully sitting on the other end of the cushioned window seat. The studio is open and airy, and very well lit, but Enjolras suddenly feels very claustrophobic, so close to R.

The butterflies are back, so he makes an effort of pushing them down by clearing his throat, and getting on with it as professionally as possible.

 

“So, I have some cue questions written down somewhere, but they’re mostly just a back-up. It’ll be a lot easier and less staged feeling if we just see where conversation takes us, keep it low-key, no pressure. That will definitely show in the article, which is good-- Readers really respond to things that feel real, which, in this era of _“fake news_ ,” I can understand. If anything comes up that maybe you don’t want to discuss, or there’s a question you feel uncomfortable answering, just let me know and we’ll move on, no problem. Your comfort is more important than any information we might get otherwise, okay?”

 

Grantaire nods along with his spiel, carefully attentive, and it’s all Enjolras can do to not get distracted by his eyes. At first glance he’d assumed them brown, but close up they’re a very, very dark green, the kind of green that calls back to the foreboding forest in every cautionary fairy tale.

“That all sounds good to me,” Nods Grantaire. Enjolras has noticed that he smiles a lot, but never outright; Always with a ducked head, or behind his hand. He wonder what it will take to get that smile out in the open. “I gotta admit-- I’m kind of nervous. I don’t… I don’t do interviews very often.”

“Oh?” Asks Enjolras, uncapping his pen and shifting his notebook into his lap, “And why’s that?”

* * *

Time flies when you’re having fun, and before Enjolras can even blink they’re almost finished. It feels like he’s been talking to Grantaire for both a century and a millisecond; He’s infinitely interesting, though tends to lean towards pessimism and cynicism, and has an opinion almost every current event, or band, or brand.

 

They’ve talked about everything Enjolras could have hoped for, and more; The past four hours have been spent in such easy conversation, like they’ve known each other for centuries, and loud laughter. They covered everything he wanted to: Trump’s administration, the effects of the modelling business on society and young people especially, climate change, and the rumours that his friend Eponine’s band, The Wolve’s new song was about him.

Almost all of the topics discussed were met with condemnation (Trump), quiet fury, thankfully not aimed at him (his own career’s effect on society) or exasperated acceptance (climate change, and it took all Enjolras had to hold his tongue.) with the odd strangely self-deprecating (for a model) joke. All except the issue of Eponine’s song, which garnered a laugh, loud and open; Grantaire assured him it definitely was _not_ written for him, though he does know the girl it _was_ written for.

By the time they’re winding down, Feuilly comes bustling in with the last of his camera equipment, and a bottle of champagne. “Think fast,” He says, tossing it to Enjolras, who catches it after minimal fumbling and shoots him a dirty look. “From some delirious fans at the door. No idea why they still bring shit like this, but-- Figured you might want it.”

 

“Save the throwing of dangerous objects for Bahorel, please,” He says, examining the label and letting out a low whistle. It looks to be a pretty expensive brand, the kind his parents would drink, and _well_ out of his usual price range-- Not that he makes a habit of buying champagne. “It’s not from any fan of mine. I’m sure R doesn’t want me scavenging from his fans.”

He holds to bottle out to Grantaire, who pales slightly, but waves it off. “Oh, shit no, dude, don’t worry about it. It’s yours. If you want it, that is, but I don’t--”

“He’s sober! Whoo-whoop!” Cheers Feuilly, from where he’s setting up some lighting rig, and Enjolras takes the bottle back, and puts it on the floor, hopefully not in Grantaire’s line of sight.

 

“That’s wonderful,” He says, smiling, and means it; He’d read about Grantaire’s habit of partying, but thought it of bad taste to bring it up.  

“I guess,” Says Grantaire. He’s fiddling with his hair and staring resolutely at the floor, but he’s _smiling,_ so Enjolras figures that must count for something. “Two months now. It’s slow going, but you do what you gotta do, y’know?”

 

He sounds proud of himself. Enjolras is glad; He _should_ be proud of himself. Fuck, he’s only known the guy a few hours, and _he’s_ proud of him.

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, and please don’t feel obligated to bite at this hook, but is there a reason why?”

Grantaire is silent for a few moments, his gaze moving to the window as he thinks. Enjolras knows that he’s moved them into dangerous territory, but he trusts Grantaire to just dismiss the question if it makes him uncomfortable.

“I guess,” He says, breaking two minutes and thirty five seconds worth of silence, still staring resolutely out of the window, “Realising that I’m in the public eye was a big part of it. Not because I care what some old fucks think of me, y’know, but-- I’m very open with my relationship with mental health, my depression, all that shit. I don’t want kids, especially vulnerable kids, to look at me and think that getting hammered at every chance is a healthy way to cope.

      I think it’d be cool if they looked at me and saw me getting help and getting healthier and thinking that maybe they could do it too, though. That’d be really cool. And you know, I don’t want to sound like every other person who ever had a smidgen of fame, but the fans keep me sane. I don’t believe in anything, really, but they believe in me, and God knows why, but-- That’s more than enough to get me off my ass and do something.”

Enjolras is astounded. Grantaire won’t look at him, but every word sounded genuine and carefully thought out, but still managed to avoid sounding rehearsed. It’s obvious to everyone in the room that he means this, wholeheartedly, and that it’s something he’s thought about a lot.

 

There’s shame there, too; Enjolras likes to think himself a non-judgemental person, but Grantaire has denied every admittedly negative expectation he had, coming into this interview. This article isn’t going to be some vapid hot-or-not gossip piece, and R isn’t vacuous or self involved-- He’s the opposite. And Enjolras knows he can only atone by making that known, when he writes all of this up.

 

“Are you two done yet? I want to try and get the last of this light for the shoot.” Calls Feuilly, from across the room. The both of them stand up instantly, fearing the wrath of a Feuilly disobeyed.

 

“Grantaire,” Says Enjolras, and it’s spoken so quietly that he surprises _himself._ “That’s-- That’s really incredible. And I wish you all the best, with everything. I really enjoyed talking to you today.”

“Oh,” Grantaire blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from the window and looking directly at him, “Thank you. I did too, I guess I was nervous for nothing. Good luck with trying to make sense of anything I’ve said today and like, making it into something coherent.”

He’s only half joking, Enjolras can tell, but he smiles anyway and offers him a nod. “Good luck with the shoot.” He says, and starts to turn away.

He feels Grantaire’s hand around his wrist before he hears the whisper of _“Shit,”_ and then, louder, “Fee, throw me a pen, would you?”

 

Enjolras has no idea what’s happening, and apparently neither does Feuilly, but he somehow manages to produce a chewed-up ballpoint from his cap and throws it over to Grantaire, who catches it with his free hand.

“This,” He says, turning Enjolras’ hand so it’s palm up and scribbling something on it, “Is my number. Feel free to call me, or text, or whatever, or, I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, but--”

“I will.” Enjolras smiles, cutting off his rambling. Grantaire looks up from where he was staring at his feet, again, and _smiles_ completely openly, for the first time all day. Not at the ground, or from behind his hand, or looking off into the distance.

 

He looks beautiful. Enjolras wonders what he can do to make him do it again.

* * *

Twelve hours later, it’s 4AM, and Enjolras has just finished the first draft of the article. Batcat is curled up on the bed beside him, providing the only noise besides that of scarce traffic as he alternates between purring and snoring.

Enjolras closes his laptop, as soon as he’s sent the first draft off to Valjean, and risks a glance at his phone. He’d texted Grantaire earlier, as promised, with a very casual “ _Hey, this is Enjolras :-).”_

There’s been no response yet, and just looking at the damn thing brings the butterflies back.

 

He really, _really_ needs to stop letting Courf rope him into rom-com movie nights.

 

As he’s thinking this, his phone decides to buzz very loudly, and very suddenly-- Suddenly enough to make him jump a foot in the air, yelping falling off the bed with a loud _thump._

Batcat raises his head sleepily, yawns, and settles back down as though his owner falling off the bed because he got a _text message_ was beneath him.

“Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Antoine, get it together,” He says, on the floor, before pushing himself up and off the floor, and back onto the bed to check his phone.

It's embarrassing, really, how much he hopes it’s Grantaire texting him back, and not Valjean up weirdly early to thank him for the draft, or some spam text from his provider.

 

 **_( GRANTAIRE || TODAY || 4:05:32:_ ** _hey enjolras :-) its weirdly late i know but i was reading some of ur other articles n got….caught up lol_ **_)_ **

**_( GRANTAIRE || TODAY || 4:06:02:_ ** _theyre good tho like. really good. altho it does make me wonder what ur doing interviewing me, a model, when u write a politics column and i, said model, am distinctly unpolitical._ **_)_ **

**_( GRANTAIRE || TODAY || 4:08:25:_** _we should discuss it. maybe over dinner this weekend. If you wanted to?_ ** _)  
_**   
Enjolras smiles. He would like to discuss it over dinner, very much so.

 **_( ENJOLRAS || TODAY || 4:09:03:_ ** I’d love to discuss that over dinner this weekend. It’s a date :-) **)**

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOO HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY PERSEPHONE U CUTE BEAN
> 
> thank u to jamie for all the handholding and also to my own tired brain for all the probably uncaught typos. as always feel free to tip ur local fic writer in the form of comments/kudos, or hit me up on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire!


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